


Ipecac Seasoned Chicken

by orphan_account



Series: Sherstrade Domesticity [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock is sick, Sick Fic, Unwell, Vignette, ill, loving, poorly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Greg wakes in an empty bed to the sounds of Sherlock bringing up last night's dinner. Ever the dedicated man, he's at his side throughout.





	

It was the sound that woke Greg - something that was dreadfully close to a death rattle. He frowned and peered at the digital clock beside his bed - it was just before two am, and he had only been settled in bed for just over an hour. Had he woken sooner - for example three minutes ago, when the bed had dipped and he’d been left alone in the sheet - he would have known that the sound was not, in fact, a death rattle but those of his lover bringing up his dinner from three or four hours ago into the toilet bowl. He sat on the edge of the bed quickly, and called out to Sherlock.

‘Hey, are you alright, Kid?’ he asked, crossing the room. He slipped out of the open door and across the hallway to the bathroom. Sherlock was on his knees, hands bracing the toilet, as he hovered above it and retched. Greg moved in quickly and sat on the side of the bath, reaching forwards to offer comfort in the form of his hand circulating on Sherlock’s back over his t-shirt as the younger man retched again and coughed out another mouthful of vomit. 

After retching again, this time producing nothing, Sherlock regained his ability to swallow comfortably before he sat back against the floor and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his left hand. ‘What the hell did you make for dinner - ipecac seasoned chicken?’ he asked with a gasp, trying to settle his erratic breathing, still able to feel his stomach clenching painfully. 

‘Are you sure it isn’t the two bottles of wine we polished it off with?’ Greg attempted a joke, but realised Sherlock wasn’t in the mood for that pretty quickly. ‘Did that come out of nowhere or have you been up ages?’ Greg asked, reaching over to flush the toilet. He pulled off a length of toilet tissue and handed it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock shook his head, ‘I just woke up and knew I was going to vomit.’ He threw the used tissue into the toilet. ‘I felt fine when we went to bed.’ 

Greg pushed his hand onto Sherlock’s forehead, raking his curls back before keeping it settled there. ‘You’re a bit warm; maybe you’re coming down with a stomach flu?’ 

Sherlock moved his head until Greg took the hint and withdrew his hand. He swallowed and pursed his lips as he breathed out again. ‘I’m going to throw up again…’ he cringed, and leaned forwards, arching over the toilet once more. He barely managed to get his hands up for support before he vomited again, belching loudly and coughing pitifully as the acidic liquid poured out, burning as it dripped from his nose, too. Greg cringed in sympathy and rubbed his hand on Sherlock’s back again, as Sherlock heaved again and vomited heavily. Greg didn’t like that - Sherlock’s meals were never particularly large yet the lad seemed to be bringing up a week’s worth of food. The smell was foul and the sound effects were making Greg’s own stomach churn. 

‘Maybe I should call an out of hours GP or something?’ Greg suggested as Sherlock had a break from the contractions in his stomach and the retching seemed to stop.

Hovering still above the toilet, his weight on his shaking arms, Sherlock shook his head and spat into the toilet, trying to rid his mouth of the horrible taste. ‘For what?’ he chanced turning his head away from the loo for a moment to look at Greg, ‘They can’t do much about food poisoning or stomach flu - I just have to get it all out.’ He breathed steadily in through his nose and out through his mouth and turned his head back to the toilet, feeling a wave of nausea that thankfully amounted to nothing. 

Ever the dedicated man, Greg remained seated awkwardly on the bath with Sherlock for a further hour. In that time, the younger man vomited twice more before deciding that he found lying down on the cool tiled floor made him feel somewhat better than sitting up with his back pressed against the tiled wall. Greg would have stayed with Sherlock for the next hour, had the young man not ordered him out as his bowels twisted and he was plagued by diarrhea. In solidarity with Sherlock, Greg didn’t return to bed. Instead, he settled himself in the lounge with a cup of coffee and occasionally took trips along the hallway to knock the door and see if Sherlock was feeling any better. 

When five am ticked around, Greg was pleased to see Sherlock venture more than a foot from the bathroom, finally beginning to feel a little less like his gastrointestinal system hated him. He kept the young man on strictly clear fluids, offering him water - sometimes fortified with salt and sugar to replace electrolytes, sometimes just cool and refreshing - hoping to restore his fluids. 

By eight am, Sherlock’s stomach appeared to have completely given up it’s assault. Wrapped in a sheet and feeling weak and sickly, he curled into Greg’s lap on the sofa and lay with him, with the TV on quietly, and spent the new day in perfect stillness - but for trips to the sink for fresh water - dozing in and out of a light sleep with Greg’s protective arms wrapped around him.


End file.
